


it hurts

by theantepenultimateriddle



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Blood slightly, F/F, hurt/comfort I guess but Minkowski sucks at comfort, set after Who's There but before Pan-Pan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 22:10:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14411574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theantepenultimateriddle/pseuds/theantepenultimateriddle
Summary: Being skewered by shrapnel is a hell of a way to tell someone you love them.





	it hurts

Being skewered by shrapnel is a hell of a way to tell someone you love them.

Unfortunately it’s the way you chose, and now you’re stuck in bed with a hole through your stomach, a maniac in charge of your medical care, a dead crewmate, and a commanding officer who won’t even look you in the eye.

_(My fault my fault my fault my fault)_

Minkowski is refilling your saline bag now, and she’s still not looking at you, still jumping back every time her hand so much as brushes your skin. The silence might as well have teeth, because you can feel it tearing you apart-- or maybe that’s just your wound again, sending pain shooting up through your body, throbbing in time to your heartbeat. But either way it doesn’t matter. You can’t sit like this anymore. You can’t just watch her bite her tongue as she fixes you anymore, you can’t--

You jerk yourself upwards suddenly into a sitting position, ignoring how it makes your eyes water in agony. Minkowski startles backwards, but you reach out and catch her wrist, holding her there. “Minkowski,” you say, forcing the words out, your voice harsh and rough from disuse, “what aren’t you saying?” She opens her mouth to respond, but you cut her off. “And don’t you dare say “nothing”, because we both know that’s a lie. Whatever it is you don’t want to say to me, whatever’s strangling you into silence, I don’t _care._ Just tell me! Get it over with!”

_(She probably hates me. For what I did to Eiffel, I’d hate me too.)_

Minkowski stiffens in your grasp, but you don’t let go. Then her body slumps, all the fight going out of her, and she lifts her head up and looks directly at you for the first time in days. Her deep brown eyes are shining with tears, beads of wetness clinging to her eyelashes. “I have nothing to say to you, Captain,” she says, and in contrast to her eyes her voice is strong, steady, and cold as Siberia. Her words pierce deeper than the shrapnel did.

_(Hates me. I was right, dammit.)_

You inhale involuntarily and let go of her wrist. She quickly pulls it away, moving out of reach and turning to leave, and the energy drains out of you to leave you floating limply back down to the bed. _Pound, pound, pound_ goes your heart, and _throb, throb, throb_ goes your wound, and you wonder blearily through it all why everything is suddenly blurry.

The sob catches in your throat.

Oh. That’s why.

The tears don’t roll down your face in the microgravity; instead they form little bubbles that float in front of your eyes and cling to your skin, and that’s so annoying. This is all so _annoying._ You shouldn’t be crying. You have no right to cry, you never did, and it wouldn’t help anything anyways.

_(Be a big girl and don’t cry.)_

You wipe your eyes and try to get yourself under control enough to quit it, but it’s like all the stress and pain from the last god-knows-how-long is getting to you, because you can’t stop. The tears just keep coming, and no matter how hard you try to cry silently there are still noises that slip out. “Dammit,” you whisper. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

There’s no sound to warn you, but a hand reaches out and touches your shoulder, and you move back instinctively. The sharp jolt tugs at the newly-sutured skin of your stomach hard enough that make a noise like a fox caught in a trap, hard enough to make your vision white out for a moment. The hand tightens, and Minkowski’s voice filters in. “Lovelace…”

“No,” you gasp, hating yourself for it. “No, no. If you have nothing to say to me… just go.”

There’s a pause. The warm weight of her hand on you doesn’t move, and your pain doesn’t subside. Finally she speaks again, her voice almost too quiet for you to hear over the rush of blood in your ears. “Why did you jump in front of that panel for me? Why did you have to be so damn heroic?”

_(It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, put me on drugs or something I can’t answer right now I want to vomit--)_

“No one else was going to,” you say, your voice desperate and fast. “They-- ah!” Your body twitches involuntarily and you feel the warm trickle of blood soaking into your clothes-- you must have popped a stitch or two. “Need you,” you manage, through your clenched jaw. “Need you, not me. I won’t…” The blood increases, and you have to swallow down bile. “I won’t apologize for saving you.” You shut your eyes. “It hurts, Minkowski.”

Minkowski takes a second to respond, but you feel her fingers brush over the now-red cloth of your shirt. She sighs. “You need to stop trying to move so fast. This is the third time you’ve torn your stitches out this week. At this rate you’ll get an infection, and…” Her voice trails off. “You know we need you too, right?” She lets go of you and you can feel her moving away, prepping what you assume to be a local anaesthetic and a sterilized needle (again). “You can’t just die on us like that. Lovelace, we need all hands on deck just keeping this station together right now. When you recover we’re going to need you, too. And you can’t just leave me here alone to deal with Hilbert and Hera.”

“Hey!” interjects Hera’s voice from the ceiling. “I resent that--”

“Not the time, Hera,” says Minkowski. “I’m having a private conversation with Captain Lovelace. Understand? _Private.”_

Hera gives an electronic sigh. “Fine. I’ll leave you two to it.”

_(Loathing in her voice. If Minkowski doesn’t hate me, she definitely does. After all, I am the resident psycho bitch from hell.)_

“Sorry about Eiffel,” you whisper.

You hear Minkowski swallow. “It’s not your fault,” she says. “It’s not anyone’s fault. Sometimes people just…”

“Die. I know,” you finish. You make a choked noise as the pain in your stomach stabs through you again. “Hurry up, please.”

“On it.” Minkowski doesn’t speak again for a little bit, and you hear her move towards you. Her hands touch your waist, pulling your shirt up to just below your breasts so she can look at it, and she presses a wad of gauze to the bleeding parts to stifle them. The point of a needle touches your skin, sliding in, and then some of the pain-- enough of the pain-- disappears. You don’t feel her stitch you up, but a few minutes later she steps back and you open your eyes again. She’s surveying her work. “That should hold.”

“Hope so,” you say. You fix your eyes on hers. “Do you mean it?”

“When I say the stitches will hold?”

“Don’t insult both of us. When you say you need me. Do you mean it? Or are you just saying that so you don’t have to feel guilty about me in addition to Eiffel?”

_(I’m hurting her. I need the answers. Fuck this.)_

Minkowski’s gaze hardens. “In the time that you’ve known me, do I seem like the kind of person who says things that aren’t true in order to make people feel better?” She doesn’t give you the time to answer. “Of course I mean it. I need you here, Captain, and I need you functional and not wallowing in pain and self-pity. I need you awake, and I need you helping, and I need you not to try any big, grand gestures again.”

“At the moment I don’t think I could if I wanted to,” you say, “but I take your point. No more saving you.”

“No more saving me at your own expense.” Minkowski reaches out and for a second you think she’s going to prod your wound, but instead she smooths the hair back from your forehead. It’s so unexpected that it leaves you momentarily speechless, and her touch makes your skin tingle. “You deserve to live as much as any of us.” Her voice is soft, now, soft and confusing. “Maybe more than most.”

Your heart wrenches a little, warmth pulsing through your chest.

_(She doesn’t think I deserve to die. Well, that’s a first step.)_

“We’ll get back, Minkowski,” you say, not quite sure why.

“Yeah,” she says. “Sure.”

Minkowski smiles at you, and her face is so sad and so beautiful that you wish you had the energy or the guts to kiss her. 


End file.
